


The Secret

by susiephalange



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Fluffy Ending, Light Angst, Married Couple, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: You've got a secret, and it's practically eating you alive, and running into various Avengers isn't helping. Whatever will you do?





	The Secret

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from an anon on Tumblr.
> 
> I got a bit drunk and decided to get over my writer's block by writing whatever. In fact, I'm still tipsy now writing this so forgive any errors. But I think it's kind of appropriate since Tony is our resident - but recovered! - alcoholic.

The worst thing one person can do, is kill another person. You didn’t do that. No, you most certainly did not do that, but inside yourself, you feel like you did. Holding this terrible secret inside of you feels like you’ve gone to all to trouble of plotting a murder, pulling it off, and are living with the trauma and regret of it all. But, instead, you have this tiny little secret, sitting quietly inside your throat. Unable to come out. Waiting to clog up your airways and force itself to either kill you or reveal itself.

You shake your head, splashing water upon your face. The ________ staring back at you in the mirror mocks you, looking at you with your eyes as if she knows more than you about something. She knows your secret, but closing your eyes, and turning the faucet off, you ignore your reflection, and exit the bathroom.

“Get it together, ________,” you mutter to yourself, one fist closed, the other straightening your clothes. “It’s just a secret.”

But as soon as you walk out of the bedroom, you all but run into Happy Hogan. He doesn’t look very cheerful today; his sunglasses are extra-dark, and his frown seems to have immigrated upon his thin lips. Behind him is the protégé of Tony Stark and fellow hero, an un-suited Spider-Man whose hair is a mess. The kid looks up from his _Science Weekly_ magazine to smile and wave at you.

“Hi, ________, how’s it going?” He asks, a smile taking over his face. “Happy’s taking me to the Smithsonian, there’s a collection of cool bugs there.”

“Sounds fun,” you smile, and say to Happy, “Have a great time out together.”

Peter notices something about you, and asking, he wonders, “Are you okay, ________?”

You pause, a shock of fear coursing your veins. How had this child, who had less experience in the vigilante scene and no S.H.I.E.L.D. training, picked up a hint of what you’re hiding? You want to say what’s on your mind, but that tiny little secret holds you back. If Tony got a whiff of what you’re hiding, then it was over.

“Yeah, sure am, Peter.” You beam, ruffling his hair. You pat Happy’s shoulder, and walking down the hall, you call out to them, “Enjoy the bugs!”

* * *

You make it by the training room, barely passing the open door without a scratch. Buried in the door frame is one of Hawkeye’s arrows, and, standing at the opposing end of the room, is the hero himself. Except, wearing sweatpants and a _Lord of The Rings_ tee, he is not Hawkeye today, but Clint. Even though he isn’t in gear, and he probably didn’t see you coming (he was a little hard of hearing these days, after the fiasco in Sokovia), it doesn’t account for the fact that if you were a little to the left, you might have an arrow in your scapula.

You cross your arms, ready to tell him off in sign language, but there out of nowhere, Ant Man grows bigger before you. You’re not too close with Scott Lang, no, but you know well of his doings and heroics after you vetted him to join the Avengers officially. He was a little goofy for your tastes, and a little too shy in flair. But you weren’t looking for that right now; just a place to bury your head in the sand and wait out the burning secret in your chest to die off.

“Hey, ________,” Scott says, unlatching his mask. “Sorry, did we scare you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You roll your eyes, hands upon your hips in defiance. “Perhaps it’s because I was just shot at…?” you suggest.

“New trick shot,” Clint says and signs at the same time. “I shoot Ant Man at the enemy.”

You shake your head. “Back in my heyday, we did undercover and recovery missions, none of this fight-fights in Germain airports,” you tell them both, and taking a breath, you add, verbal and in sign language, “Might be good for a one-time exercise, it’ll lose the element of surprise if you keep doing it.”

Clint nods. “Good point.” He says, pressing a button on his bow. The arrow buried in the wood of the door beeped, and with a tug, flew backwards into his hand, and back to the quiver. “It’s electromagnetic, I’ll never lose an arrow again!”

Scott frowns, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah, dude.” He looks back to you, and asks, “Are you sure you’re okay, ________? I –,”

You nod feverishly, “Yeah, sure I am.” You grin. But inside, you’ve got a niggling sensation in your chest, fluttering around like a moth on the loose within your ribcage. “Um, I’ll let you get back to shooting Scott, Clint.”

* * *

It was really staring to bug you now, all the keeping inside. Bottling up your emotions was something you were never good at, even when you had Level 7 clearance in the old S.H.I.E.L.D. It was a good thing that you were in a mostly-empty building, too; with Dr Banner still MIA since Sokovia, Thor off-world, Steve Rogers in exile, and most of his ‘side’ for the past digression in the wind, you walked the mostly-empty halls of the facility of Upstate New York glad for the absence of people.

But that was until you ran into Vision. Well, it was more like you were minding your business, walking the hallways, but he had decided to phase through the floor, and you tripped over his head onto the concrete flooring.

“Ahh,” you winced, dusting your grazed knees with your equally-grazed palms, “That hurt…”

Vision turned to you, his lips pulled back to appear regretful. “I am very sorry, Miss ________,” he said, voice very much like the J.A.R.V.I.S. you remember Tony having back when you were just a field agent to him, a babysitter, not a wife. “Can I assist you with medicinal care? I have complete knowledge of first aid.”

You shake your head. “No thanks, Vision,” you give him a small thumbs-up, wincing. “I’m fine. I swear.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, tentative. “You appear distressed.”

You nod, feeling the pressure in your chest return. Despite this, you tell the android before you, “Oh, that’s nothing. Don’t you worry about a thing, Vis.”

He pauses, and, he hums. “If you say so, Miss ________.” He looks to the window, and, on another train of thought, goes to observe the view from that side of the room. You take this as a cue to leave and gathering your thoughts and self from your little trip, you try to find an unoccupied place in this facility.

* * *

You’ve made it all the room you share with your husband, and instead of trying to bottle in and try to forget about it now, you’ve made up your mind on doing the opposite. Every time you encountered someone, you were sent into an echoing spin of worry, and it wasn’t worth it. So, you’ve made up your mind.

You will find Anthony Edward Stark.

He may be a genius and Iron Man himself, but he’s not immune to the app on your phone that tracks his, and within minutes, you’re entering the workshop he’s taken on to be his own. When you fell for him all those years ago, he was exactly this: a man covered in sweat and grease and jamming to rock and roll songs of the past. Sure, he was rich, and he was powerful, and he was super-smart, but they were all side-benefits to the man himself.

He spots you over a project he’s working on and turns down his playlist over the speakers. “Hey, wifey,” he grins, wiping his hands on a rag. “What brings you to my lair?”

You blink, feet stuck where they are to the floor. All the bravery it took to muster to get here dies right then and there, and you’re stunned into silence like a fish mounted upon the wall. But, clearing your throat, you manage to get a handful of words to spill fourth, “I have to tell you something.”

Tony’s grin is usually infectious, but right now, it’s killing you softly. He’s too good for you. He is. Truly. “What is it, babe?” He asks, snapping the rag he’s holding to his side, approaching you. His eyes graze over you and drawing you in for a hug. But when he withdraws he frowns. “Holy hell, ________, you’re shaking. What is it?”

You swallow. “I –,” you sniffle, feeling terrible. “I –,” But the words just won’t come from your lips. Tony’s eyes soften, his hands cradling your shoulders, his eyes roaming your eyes deep as you struggle to find a way to get the secret you’ve been harbouring out aloud. “I’m so afraid of what you’ll say. What everyone will say,” you whisper.

“Did someone hurt you?” His face is dark with an anger you’re unfamiliar with.

You shake your head, “No,” you breathe. You wait a second, and muster the courage, the words slip fourth, “Tony, I’m pregnant.”

* * *

There’s a laughter in the room, and it takes you a moment to realise that it’s your husband who is making the noise. His face is contorted into such happiness you haven’t seen him in for years – his face is care-free, eyes surrounded by wrinkles, mouth wide in a wide smile.

“You –,” he says, slowly. “You’re pregnant?” He repeats your words. But he doesn’t wait for an answer, and whooping, he gathers you within his arms for a hug. “We’re going to be parents, ________!” When Tony releases you from his embrace, he stares at your midsection, and asks, “How long have you known?”

You let out a breathy sigh. “Yesterday, when I got back from the city.” You take your husband’s hands in yours, tracing your fingers over his calloused digits. “It’s been hell to keep it in, because, you know, what you said on the honeymoon.”

Four years ago, you two were married in Central Park, beside the park bench where you had met one another three years previous. Your honeymoon had been to the warm beaches of the always summery Great Barrier Reef in Australia, where you spent almost a month exploring the ocean and walking the beaches together. But it was on this glorious, most perfect honeymoon where you remember talking one night to your freshly-made husband about the one topic you had not previously discussed. _Children_. He hadn’t been Iron Man for long at this point, and yet, when you heard that he had no wish to make a family, that night was etched in your memory for years to come.

“Rule number twelve,” he says, cradling your face to pepper every surface of it except your lips with kisses, “I say dumb shit sometimes, and I love you. And a baby is an extension of you, and I could never hate you for creating a Jnr.”

You shake your head, “No way are we calling our baby after you.”

Tony finally kisses your lips, and resting his forehead against yours, gazes into your eyes. “Whoever said the baby would be named after me?” He grins. “I love you, ________.”

“Love you too,” You whisper, and go in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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